


Daffodil

by ThotHouse



Category: Original Work
Genre: Choking, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Minor Violence, Past Infidelity, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Stress Relief, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24667459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThotHouse/pseuds/ThotHouse
Summary: You’re so fucking tired of being good....Reader: fuck the cops are comingSawyer: Not before u babe, dw dw...
Relationships: Sawyer/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sawyer belongs to [yandere-flower](https://yandere-flower.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

On a typical Thursday night this late, you would either be:

A) In the office, finishing paperwork that was your responsibility only because you didn’t know how to say the word no,

B) At your apartment, throwing together dinner for you and your boyfriend with ingredients he never fucking seemed to have the time to get,

Or,

C) Staring just a little too hard, too long, at your reflection in the rear-view and making a game of how long you dared keep your eyes off the road. 

This is not a typical Thursday.

“Fuck yeah, more shots!”

You don’t even know whose voice that was, only that their yell precipitated the arrival of someone bearing a tray of more vodka shots than you’d ever had in your life. Barring the past few hours.

You grab the shot clumsily, sloshing the liquid onto your already splattered top. You call out, “Slainte, motherfuckers!”

A chorus of loud woos follow your statement but you’re already tipping your head back to take the shot. It burns like a bitch. Heh. That’s what your boyfriend had called you, when you were throwing his shit out the window. You snarl at the memory, slamming the empty shot glass on the table. That fucking dickhead. There’s teeth in your smile as you reach for another shot, chipped pink polish flaking off your acrylic fingernails.

The girls around you are already following suit, some giggling in excitement and others too plastered to do anything more than toss the booze back, glassy eyed. God, this was unhealthy. You push the thought back. 

If you can still think responsibly then you aren’t fucking drunk enough. 

That’s the fucking point of this night, anyways. To exorcise that part of you, the responsible, good part. The part that wasted seven goddamned years on a man who cheated on you just because he was fucking bored. 

Four years of law school. A body religiously sculpted through hours of goddamn cross fit. The ability to deepthroat without a fucking gag reflex and—and—

It still didn’t put you above an easy fuck. Like the goddamn maid. 

You immediately feel guilty, sneering at how pathetic that sounded. You sounded. God, it wasn’t the housekeeper’s fault your boyfriend was a sack of shit. 

Unlike what your friends had tried to tell you. You had immediately called them for an emergency drinking session after tossing the bastard out of your apartment, not so much wanting as needing a venting session. 

You’d expected, you don’t know, some anger from them? Some empathy? Some righteous fucking fury at the man you’d wasted nearly a decade of your fucking life with. But no. They just told you that it was natural for men to fuck around a little. Part of being a career woman. You just had to suck it up and keep the peace.

Fuck the peace. 

You don’t realize you said it aloud until the girls around you start to repeat it. 

“Yea, fuck the peace!”

“Yes, babe!! Preach!”

“Screw the fucking peace!!” one calls out, so plastered it comes out slurred, causing them to giggle and press closer against the girl next to them.

You’ve never seen any of these bitches before in your life. But for tonight they were your best fucking friends. 

Raising a shot that had mysteriously appeared in your hand, you grin and say viciously for the whole bar to hear, “Fuck the peace!”

It comes back to you in a chorus, and god, you’ve never felt so powerful. 

You abandoned those previous friends around two bars ago. Right around when they’d all begun to look all concerned and told the waiter to cut you off, reminding you how you all had to be in the office early tomorrow. Never mind the fact you felt like someone had ripped the carpet of your life out from under your feet and tried to fucking smother you with it. 

No, it wouldn’t do to look unprofessional. So you’d found the messiest women at the bar and starting buying drinks, and fuck were you glad you did. This crowd was a good one. You down the shot and pump your fist with them to the music. 

The bar’s DJ appears to have a healthy understanding of what drove women to the bottle, as the playlist so far had consisted solely of breakup anthems and fuck-you songs. 

“—think I’d crumble! Think I’d lay down and die!” Someone yells beside you, almost directly in your ear. You’re drunk enough that you don’t care, smiling at you join in. “Oh no, not I! I wwwiiillllll—“

It’d been ages since you’d had a night like this. Since you’d even fucking sung. Years of vocal training and classes down the drain, all cause professional women focused on their career first, their partner second, and themselves dead last. If anything, they had to cater to their boyfriend’s likes, dislikes. Smooth out their own rough edges to present at the perfect, sweet, bubbly successful girlfriend. 

The song changes and you join everyone else in screaming their excitement. The DJ had apparently stopped beating around the bush with the regular Shania Twain and Clarkson and moved on to the OG breakup song. 

“—showing her how to shoot a combooooo—“

Now that’s a fucking break up song. You put a foot on the barstool and belt out, loud, “Oh, and he don’t know!” 

The girls around you titter and the men drawn by them woot in encouragement. 

The bartender grins at you and winks. He extends a hand you eagerly take, stepping atop the bar and grabbing an empty tequila bottle to use as a microphone. Well, that bottle had definitely been full when you got there. 

The upbeat song and haze of alcohol push all concerns away and you find around belting your lungs out on a dirty bar, neat mustard yellow work dress already rucked up to your swinging hips. “—carved my name into his leather seeaaats—“

You feel eyes looking at you, so many, and it’s glorious. You wink and smile at the men eyeing you from below, blowing a kiss at one in the corner whose wild grin matches yours.

“—Slashed a hole in all four tires—“

It used to be like this, you remember, when you were younger and braver and not afraid of your own damn self. You were loud. Spontaneous. Unafraid. Then law school had happened, and a steady boyfriend, and expec-fucking-tations and suddenly you weren’t allowed to be real, to just want and do things without carefully planning them all out. 

The words coming out of your mouth are less sung and more snarled, vicious pointed things that you spit out to the room. The bar is alive now, with you, and you are wholly present. No more sweet in-house legal council ditz who ignored every passing micro-aggression with a smile. No biting your tongue to make your wasteful clod of a boyfriend look better. No going through each day pretending the space between your lungs and sternum wasn’t filled with a terrible, pulsing anger. 

“Maybe next time he’ll think before—“

Then someone‘s hand starts to reach up your thigh. 

You break off, turning to gape at the man. There’s a moment where you feel that all too familiar rush of shame, regret, impulse to step away and make yourself smaller. 

Whether it’s the booze or your new found lease on life, you’ll never know. What you do know is that the bottle in your hand has a good heft to it. That it only takes one good swing to smash it against his head. And that the scattered, bloody stained bits of glasses raining down on the floor are very pretty.

The bar is quiet now, so quiet you can hear the pounding in your ears and the thick slur in your voice as you lean down and say, “Hands off the talent, you fucking prick.”

And the crowd goes wild. 

Curses surround you and your entourage of girls start to scream, rushing away in panic before the storm. One of the guy’s friends grabs at your ankle and you go down, other leg buckling. You gasp as your head slams against the countertop. 

Shit. 

You kick out, getting someone in the face and several other someones in the side, struggling to get to your feet in the now spinning world. You manage it, cursing and launching out with the broken tequila bottle whose contents you can now feel sloshing around your rolling stomach. A hand grabs at your side, but it glances off, too disordered. The fight has become a mosh pit, everyone stampeding to get to the door as the bouncers futilely try to get closer. 

And you’re still fucking laughing. You shove and kick and brandish your broken bottle against anyone that gets too close. It’s all crazy and terrible and you feel so fucking good. A sudden wave through the crowd pushes you almost to the other side end of the bar, but you don’t care. This is fun. This is real. You are—

Someone gets close enough to grab your wrist. 

Whoops. Caught. 

“Seriously?” you say with a pout, twisting your hand to escape. His grip just tightens, the weaponized bottle falling to the ground as your hand goes just a bit numb.

“Sorry, dollfacel, got a little close to hurting yourself there.” His eyes are sparkling. “Too pretty for that."

You stop struggling. You remember the way your boyfriend had looked when he told you that men just had needs. “Oh,” you say, batting your eyelashes, “That’s so sweet.”

He looks pleasantly surprised at your reaction, studded brow quirking up in interest. Smiling, you look the man right in the eyes and spit.

The bloody glob—huh, your tooth feels funny—trickles down his cheek and he smiles. Then leans down and smashes his lips against yours. 

You instinctively bite down on the invading tongue, but instead of breaking away he just moans like you’d just grabbed his junk. Said junk that is pressed against your stomach, already hard and throbbing and somehow harder even as blood starts to fill your mouth. 

The heat that runs through you is sudden and uncalled for. But his other hand makes its way under your dress and grabs roughly at the fleshy globes of your ass and all you seem to be able to do anymore is respond. There’s an odd shape on his tongue that clanks against your teeth, a metallic tinge that compounds the bloody taste of copper in a way that has you reeling. Your chest arches into his as you struggle to reach high enough to kiss him back. 

No. This isn’t kissing. This is war. He helps only as much to press you back against the bar top, awkwardly propped against a stool. One of his hands presses your own above your head and onto the rough wood so hard you feel the splinters sink in. You gasp, hissing with pain and something else, but breaking contact with his mouth in that one second.

The realization of how fucking wet you suddenly are throws you for a moment, just a moment, but it’s long enough for the sound and flashing lights to break through the shock of being bent over a bar counter. The police have arrived. The bar is emptying out. And you’re totally screwed.

“Fuck,” you spit, twisting to eye the nearest escape route.

“Of course, I gotcha, doll,” comes the unasked for response from the man who’s already ignoring your weak struggle to separate. Instead he nuzzles into the bare expanse of your neck and drags his teeth in nips that are too hard to be really called love bites. 

You groan, feeling a fresh pulse between your legs, treacherous and demanding. You voice is breathy and uncertain, even to you, “The cops...cops are here...I can’t—“

“Just makes it better,” His hand moves from your ass downward, talented fingers drawing beneath your sensible unlined underwear. “See?”

He starts to part your embarrassingly sopping lips and then—fuck—fuck—

You realize, with a touch of delirium, that you’re getting fingered in a shitty dive bar that is definitely surrounded by police. 

And fucking loving it. 

He dips in and out of you in quick, shallow thrusts, as if desperate not to remove himself completely. Or unable to form any kind of sane rhythm. Somehow it still does something for you. Panting against his neck, you wriggle aimlessly, not knowing if you want him off or closer, only that you can’t possibly be still. 

At least the bar was already near empty of panicked patrons, those left not seeming to notice you, or at least, not staring too hard. 

“God, you’re so fucking tight.” His voice is rough but so honest that your cunt throbs, a fresh gush of slick covering his knuckles. You’re clawing at his back with your free hand, digging acrylic nails in as you throw your head back. The mouth on your neck is fully biting now, teeth gnawing and tongue licking and sucking painfully. You can’t help the sound that escapes you. 

He’s pressed so close that you actually feel his cock twitch at that, the long line straining against you. He’s so tall that it’s only with the help of the barstool that he’s not fucking your thighs. The possibility is heady and without realizing you’re going to, you lift your leg higher to rock against his heavy erection.

Gasping, you can distantly feel his fingers speed up, another joining to make three. Three fingers pushing in and out of you in something that’s barely a rhythm but it’s his voice, his fucking voice, raspy and desperate between bites on your exposed neck, that you latch onto as the tension in your belly winds tighter and tighter—

“Shit…fuck, doll, you’re so fucking soaked,“ he says, voice cracking. 

—and snaps, a perfect orgasm that has you throwing your head back against the bar top and clenching hard around his long fingers. 

“Y-yes, yes, that’s fucking perfect—“

It seems to go on for eternity, spiraling out in a release you realize you’ve been chasing the entire fucking night. And, if his fingers don’t stop moving, another one to follow. 

The bark of a megaphone outside blares and you wince, even as the complete stranger draped over you only continues to stretch you out with his hand. There’s some commotion going on, shots firing, and then--screams. 

You abruptly realize that if you even want a chance at a legal career you need to find a way out. Now. 

Voice hoarse—did you scream? Who even fucking knew. You lean up, mouth warm against the row of silver piercings circling his ear, desperate, “We need to get out, they’re—“

And, as before, nada. Just grunts and harder bites and a renewed desperation to make you cum at the perceived resistance. You groan as his hand works you back up. Fuck. Ok. Logic wasn’t the way forward. Time to change tactics. 

Your hand tugs on his hair. Softly, at first, but as the sirens outside wail louder you give up subtlety and pull in one hard unforgiving motion that jerks his head back and rips several fine, white hairs from his skull. 

The hand between your legs pauses. The other loosens from its hold on your wrist. And the man connected to them fucking moans like a pornstar during the goddamn money shot. 

There’s a telltale wetness against your rumpled dress where it’s pressed up against his crotch but there’s no time to marvel at that, not when you’re finally free enough to wiggle away. You adjust yourself as you do, pulling your dress down. 

He falls forward towards the bar in one half-step, gasp of air, threatening to collapse. You side step him in favor of rushing towards the women’s bathroom. 

There’s a window you’d spied during an earlier bathroom trip that leads to the alley. Assuming the cops were too busy controlling the crowd out front, you could make your escape, and—

Some madness strikes you. Some dark devil that had possessed you earlier this night makes you turn back. Makes you face the man who’d gotten you to forgot your bastard cheating ex for five minutes, who’d held you captive against a musty, beer soaked bar top, who’d fingerfucked you as you’d struggled to escape, who was currently sucking absentmindedly at those same fingers as he eyes you, grin wide and bloody—

—and say, “My place?”


	2. Chapter 2

You come together in a feral clash of wills, stopping several times to make out against the hard brick walls of the side streets leading to your place. 

You’re not sure how much time it took to get around the police, doubly unsure of how you’d even managed to unlock your door, and as for where your two-paychecks-and-overtime splurge of a vintage dress had gone?

You shudder as your bar companion sucks messily on your pointed and now painful hard nipples, no doubt bruised due to the fact the fucker couldn’t seem to stop biting. 

The clothes were a mystery for another day. 

Right now the only important thing was to give as good as you got. And the fucker still had his pants on. 

Unfair, considering you’d lost your own stockings sometime earlier. Probably around the time you’d tripped over one of your ex’s shitty expensive golf clubs that you’d been working up the courage to throw in the Bay. You shake your head. Didn’t matter. That asshole didn’t matter. 

Now the man who’d gotten you off in the middle of a rioting bar? He warranted some thought.

“Off,” you say, the only warning you give before shoving him back onto the bed. He falls willingly, but not gracefully, teeth dragging on your swollen nipple before laying out on the pristine comforter in a mess of splayed limbs. The portrait of a perfect disaster of a man, grin boyish and content, looking as if your word was his command.

His eyes, though. Dark as the devil and with twice the challenge in them. 

You’ve never been a forceful person during sex. In life, sure, although people didn’t expect it out of your usual bubbly smile. Part of the reason you chose a legal career was to berate and overpower others. Made up for being all of five foot nothing and with an ass people noticed before the subpoena you were serving. But sex was something you’d always been careful with, letting others take the lead. Always too worried of admonishment to bite as hard you wanted to, rake your nails as deep as you craved. 

You folded yourself smaller to fit the role people made for you and what had you even gotten from it.

So no, you don’t look away as he rips off his belt and starts to kick off his pants. His eyes seem to dare you not to either, staring back into yours with a wild intensity that makes your insides shake in recognition. 

You know that feeling. You’ve chased that feeling, half asleep for years, in the arms of men who took your surrender as a given. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t vulnerable. It wasn’t fucking romantic.

It was the promise of absolute devastation.

His pants hit the floor with nothing to follow and you spare a glance downwards in curiosity. You pause. Well. You didn’t see that every day. 

His hand falls to instinctively palm his erection, eyes still fixed on yours even as a thumb idly brushed the steel fucking barbell on the tip of his fucking dick. And more where that came from, judging by what was peeking out between his fingers. 

The woman you fancied yourself being would start shoving him out of her apartment with his clothes to follow, all before slamming the door closed and locking it. Twice.

The woman you’re realizing you are just smiles and tugs down her underwear. It falls to the floor, already absolutely soaking from previous ministrations. 

Judging by the way his eyes trail down, finally fully black as they take you in with a low, “Fuck, girly…”

He seems to like this woman.

Your smile turns vicious at this first sign of weakness, his sudden inability to speak when his mouth hadn’t stopped running from the moment he’d started finger fucking you on a beer soaked bar top. 

Now he’s the one affected, shaken, eyes stuck on your body like he owned it. He focuses unerringly at the trim, wet, patch of hair between your legs that almost glistened from the street lights through the open curtains. His hand squeezes his erection even tighter. 

Yes, he wants you. But he’ll have to earn that. Something rises in you, a need. His gaze snaps up to yours on something like instinct and it’s a second, two, before everything explodes.

You throw yourself forward, knees bracketing his thin hips, hands reaching to push him back. He goes, but not before twisting, legs tangling in yours in a quick, sloppy movement that reverses your positions. His hand curls around the back of your neck and he pulls you into a wet kiss. The piercing from before is back, clanking against the inside of your mouth, and you groan, pressing your chest closer to his. 

You wrestle a few moments more, twisting and elbowing for dominance. The tingle of coolness on your sternum is what draws you to look down and realize that of course this man has nipple piercings. 

You tweak one curiously and he groans against your lips. Sensitive. Well, nipple play turnaround was fair game. You pinch one, hard. He breaks away from your mouth for a second, long enough for you to move. 

His hiss turns into a long moan as you start to jerk him off. You go slowly at first, thumbing drops of precum from his bulbous head for lubrication, only to speed up as you feel him start to grow harder.

“So good,” he gasps. “So fucking good, dollface.”

Between his panting and the growing ache between your legs, you want him in. He seems to agree, if the way he’s bucking into your hand is anything to go by. You grip his cock harder as you reverse your positions, straddling his stomach and leaving a trail of wetness. There’s a moment where your eyes lock, an almost boyish smile on his face, before you sink onto him.

“Shit,” now it’s you cursing, eyes only barely managing to keep from clenching shut. Shit, he was big. Shit, you weren’t used to this. Shit, your fucking guts were going to hurt tomorrow. And it’s that thought that sends a tremor through you, taking more of him in a sudden slick movement. You make a strangled sound. How was he so fucking big. 

“C’mon, doll,” he coos, “You can take it all the way, I know you can.” 

His hands on your hips are trying to get you to bottom out, needy and insistent. You stop, furious.

“Don’t,” you hiss, wrapping a hand around his throat and squeezing, “Tell me what to do.” 

His hands clench into the fat of your thighs so hard you can feel the bruises forming, but you keep at it, pulsing evenly around the pierced head of his dick - and isn’t that a strange feeling - until he gasps. 

You can actually feel him swallow hard. You can feel his Adam's apple bob. You can feel his blood pound between your fingers. 

You can stop that blood if you want to. If you were a worse person, you could stop all of him if you wanted to. 

And all he’s doing is throwing his head back as if trying to give you more. It’s such a gesture of submission that you can feel the heat inside you start to burn anew. You sink down onto the rest of him in a final stroke that hits your cervix so hard you clench your hand tighter than you meant, sharp nails digging in hard.

You feel blood start to well up, slippery against the sweat at his throat, and it’s not even half a second before you’re lifting your hips up completely and slamming them back down. The first few strokes are hesitant, but you quickly find your stride. You empty out completely before falling back down on his throbbing cock, again and again, core clenching in need. His hips rise to meet yours, but it’s sloppy, like the desperate throws of a wounded animal. And god, that makes you feel so fucking good. 

You can feel him moan, try to say something, but all that comes out is a choked, “F-fuck--”

His hands on your hips are painful now, but it only adds to the experience. Your thighs are screaming in protest, muscles burning as you do nothing more than fuck yourself on this random stranger. 

Leaning forward leads to a new angle that hits something right inside you and you gasp, “Holy shit, yes—” 

Stars are flickering in your vision, making you loosen your grip, just for a second. And apparently, that was all he needed. 

Before you know or even realize he’s moved, you’re thrown back on the messy bed belly up like a live sacrifice. You crawl back to compose yourself, only for a hand on your ankle to pull you forward. 

There’s not even time to curse or struggle before he’s back inside you, pounding away at that exactly same spot that sent your eyes rolling. The urge to not give up, to make him earn this, makes you try to buck him off. He ignores it. 

“Fuck, yes, doll, do you like that,” he says, panting, the lack of hesitation in his rhythm making it less of a question than a demand, “Doll, you’re so fucking wet—"

Smiling madly, he spreads you open so far the highest muscles on your inner thigh hurts and then just continues fucking into you. One leg makes its way onto his shoulder and you can’t put up any coherent struggle now, not with the way the base of his dick is brushing against your clit in hard jerks that send you almost spiraling. 

“J-just like that, sweet cheeks,” he stutters out, “Like a fucking dream.”

Shit. You were losing. You grab onto the tattooed expanse of his arm and rip your nails in, trying to right yourself, but he just presses you back down, mouth crashing against yours so hard your teeth clank. 

It’s fury and blood and you’re being fucking consumed. The heat in your gut is so hot you feel like you’re about to explode. Shit. SHIT. He pulls away and looks at you as his tempo speeds up. His eyes might have been brown but it’s hard to tell, not with the way his pupils have blown, wide gaze fixed at the junction where his cock disappears into you. Like he wanted to fucking take a picture or something.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, almost below his breath, “Doll, you’re so fucking—fucking pretty." 

“Oh,” you say, twisting your hips, but not enough. His cock just keeps hammering into you, like he ran on fucking batteries. Your tits are bouncing in time with his thrusts. “O-Oh, shit—“

“So wet, and—and pretty. You’re so fucking pretty, doll, just like that."

Close, you’re close, and you won’t go down like this, won’t go down with a fight. One hand reaches for a fistful of his hair and twists, abrupt enough that it jerks his head to the side. You start to sit up, trying to regain the upper hand, but it’s too late, the piercings on his dick dragging against just the right spot on his next stroke. 

It’s too good. You barely have the time to sink your teeth into the side of his neck before you’re coming.

The world erupts in light and sound and it’s glorious, better than good, glorious, better than anything you’ve ever felt before because you fucking earned this. You claw at his back and sides, writhing with the release. There’s another jerk in your lower body that sends the pierced head of his dick pounding against your cervix, the overstimulation and bruising bursting together into a painful kind of pleasure that makes you want to cry as you clench down again. 

“Fuck, f-fuck, that’s perfect--please!”

Someone’s moaning and it takes a second to realize it’s you and the next second to realize the begging is doing something for him as his thrusts grow more erratic. He makes a low sound, like a dying animal, before jerking his hips one last time and flooding your bare pussy with heat. 

Oh shit. No condom. 

Oh shit. That feels so fucking good.

There’s something more claiming about feeling a man come inside you, a fullness that feels like choking. Between that and the fact he’s still rutting against you, steel piercing hitting the exact spot from before like it was laser guided, you feel yourself clench one more time, gasping as you throw your head back. 

When the crescendo ends you come back to the taste of metal in your mouth and a stretch in your lower body that probably has something to do with how you’re nearly bent in half. 

One of your knees is hovering somewhere around your left ear. The other is currently pressed awkwardly into the bed at an angle that feels like your hip is popping. Definitely not a typical yoga pose. 

You’re still pulsing around him, aftershocks like a heartbeat that only serve to squeeze around his softening cock. He’s panting into your other ear, hard breaths that tingle your neck and make you shudder.

Well. That was something.

You half expect exhaustion to hit you then, but it doesn’t. Only exhilaration hums in your veins. A feeling of accomplishment. 

You move only so much as to get your leg back into a half normal position, frowning a little when he uses the space to just collapse further into you, sweaty skin slipping against your own. Eh. You can shower later. A wave of contentment causes you to smile and you wiggle your arms out only to wrap them around the man almost passed out atop you. 

His nose presses against your hair as you squeeze him closer. His shoulders are broad, slick with sweat and maybe a little blood. The thought makes you shiver strangely.. “Thanks,” you say. “That…was really, really perfect."

Awkward, but also warranted. This was the best fuck you’d had in a while. Honestly, ever. 

There’s a puff of air on your temple as he laughs. “Happy to help, doll.” 

You hum again, hands trailing down his back to sooth at the broken skin. He slips out of you, cum dripping from your thighs down onto the sheets. He makes no move to actually get up and clean you. You’re weirdly okay with it. The mess feels like proof, evidence that this happened. Like a runner’s high, but better. 

You knead the back of his neck slowly and feel sluggishness finally drip into your veins. You could definitely get used to this. You’re only half awake as you mutter, “That's sweet."

And as you close your eyes to sleep, you don’t notice as he slowly lifts his head, eyes filled with a strange enthrallment. Only barely, you hear a cooed, “Anything for my girl.”


	3. Chapter 3

You're woken up several times.

The first time it’s to the awareness of an odd tenderness in your lower half that turns out to be your fast asleep one night stand having grabby hands. And a propensity for digging his fingers into the same bruises he’d made. You just harrumphed and twisted one his fingers back until he yelped. The next few times are much the time, until you give up and just let the single minded man do as he pleased. 

The last time you wake is because some asshole is pounding on the front door.

“Hey, are you here? Cmon, let me in! I just wanna talk!”

Someone's calling your name in between hard bangs and you are so done with this. You groan and try to smother yourself with a pillow, “Shut them up…”

“No worries, I’ll get it, doll.”

There’s a rustling next to you before the bed dips and rises, leaving you to roll over into the impossibly warm space. Sleep. Back to sleep. Nothing to worry about for—

“Who the FUCK are you!”

You jump awake. Fuck. Fuck, you knew that voice. You knew that voice well. 

“Could ask you the same thing, asshole!”

You also knew that voice. A little less well and not so much when it wasn’t moaning your fucking praises but still. Oh, fuck. Your heart jackrabbits and you remember everything, frantically tying a sheet around you. The sex. The bar. The police. 

Your ex. 

Something sinks like a lead weight in your stomach as you remember the betrayal of watching your boyfriend of six years getting sucked off by a random stranger you hired to clean the bathrooms. 

The way his eyes had widened upon seeing you. The way his fucking cum had stained the carpet. The way he’d pleaded that it was just another mistake and that he loved you with his fucking dick still untucked and hanging out of dress pants you'd bought him.

Without quite realizing you’d decided to, you leave the bedroom and approach the loud voices by the doorway. 

“Listen, pal, I’m in a good mood so if you get lost now I won’t break your fucking neck! That’s a good deal. Trust me.”

You pause at the mess of clothes at the hallway, shredded stockings hanging off a toppled set of golf clubs, bra almost ripped in two with the lace of one cup settled beside the hallway desk of guest linens.

“Is that a fucking threat? I’m calling the cops, you’re fucking crazy, I don’t know what—“

It’s the stranger from last night that sees you first, and isn’t that a laugh. His neck almost cracks from how fast his head turns, beaming as he says, “Doll! You’re awake! Give me a sec, I’ll be—“

“Move,” is all you say, giving your hookup a single second to step aside before you step forward and swing a stainless steel golf driver at your asshole ex’s stupid fucking head. 

Said asshole ducks in time, unfortunately, but the blow smashes part of the door frame into little splinters that rain back on him.

“What the fuck—“

“I told you not to come back,” you say, voice so even it scares even you a little, “I told you the next time your lying, shitty ass got near me I was going to hurt you.” His wide, shaking eyes only make the fury in your chest condense further. “You should have listened."

“Fuck, look, look, I didn’t mean it, it was a mistake—“

You swung again. He jumped back. Damn it, you were too slow. Like always. The pressure in your chest gets worse and not even the sight of him backing up in the hallway is enough to help. 

You ex says, “Look, look, we can fix this, it’s fine. You fooled around too, look, it’s normal, we can work on this!” He points to the half-naked white haired man in the doorway, his arms crossed and face focused on you. Still grinning. 

“We can just forget all of this, go back to the way it is. Please, I love you, —“

He starts to say your name and that’s fucking enough. You lunge forward and slam the golf club against where his head was, managing to hit his shoulder. He cries out, “You crazy bitch!” and starts to move, but nothing happens.

So quickly you barely realized he’d gotten that close, your goddamned one night stand has your goddamned ex boyfriend pinned several inches up against the goddamned wall.

You watch him barely strain to keep an elbow pressed on your ex’s throat. The lean muscles on his arm are tensed slightly under a kaleidoscope of tattoos. Some part of you was mesmerized. 

“Want the honors, doll, or can I?” His voice is directed at you, but with an eagerness in it that makes your ex flinch. It’s compounded by almost crooning way he says, “Cause I really, really wanna fuck him up.” 

A shiver runs through you, good or bad you’re not sure. What you are sure of is that it’s fucking cold in this hallway and you’re only in a goddamn cum-stained sheet. You drop the golf club and it clatters to the floor. 

“I don’t care anymore.” Sighing, you turn back to your apartment. “Tell him if he wants his shit to see me in small claims court. Just get him out of here.”

Your ex calls your name a few more times before going suspiciously silent, but you’re already back in your own kitchen. You reach for the expensive as shit espresso machine that still breaks down five times a fucking month and start to pour in fresh ground. The routine soothes the fever in your chest and by the time you’ve pulled the last lever, you feel drained. 

There’s a slam as the door closes and you don’t turn, letting the sound of the machine drown out the obnoxiously loud thuds of feet. 

There’s a pause, and then, “He’s gone. Some friends are gonna come clean up in a bit.” Another pause. “Are you—“

“What’s your name?” You interrupt, turning. 

He’s smiling at you, but not differently. Not nervously. It’s the same bright beam from the first moment you caught sight of him in the bar. Sunshine and fucking pierced rainbows. “It’s Sawyer, doll.”

“Sawyer,” you say, testing the name out. You give him yours and he rolls it around his mouth a little, making you giggle as he stretches it out. It feels like forever since you giggled. Your smile drops as you remember. “Sorry about all that. Shitty exes, you know. You think you know a person.”

He steps closer. “Don’t gotta worry about him anymore, doll.”

“I wish,” you scoff, “I’m probably fired by now already. He’s the boss’s son, you know. Head of legal council. Should have known better. Only took the job so we could be—"

It takes a choked off gasp to realize you’re crying and another to realize you’re fucking sobbing. There’s suddenly hands on your arms, rubbing frantically.

“No, no, doll, please don’t cry! I took care of him, don’t cry, I can—“

“I hate him,” you say, bottom lip trembling, “I hate him so fucking much. I was so fucking good for him and he didn’t even care. Didn’t even understand.” 

“I know, I know, he looked like a jerk, but, I took care of him, dollface,” Sawyer continues saying, “I took care of him and he won’t be walking around here anytime soon, I promise.”

You cradle your face in your hands as he coos empty platitudes. You’re crying. How dare you cry for him. You hate yourself and him but that hate doesn’t seem to stop the crying.   
  
Your next words come out muffled, “He broke my fucking heart.” A wet gasp. “I fucking gave up so much for him and he couldn’t even stop asking other women to fucking blow him! This wasn’t even the first time!”

You’re almost hyperventilating now, in the quiet, as Sawyer’s fingers had frozen halfway through combing through your mass of braids. There’s a loud swallow before, “He cheated? On you?”

You nod slowly, palms pressed hard against your eyes in an effort to stop the pathetic waterworks. “I wasn’t enough. Seven fucking years and he said I wasn’t enough.” 

A pause. 

“That fucking asshole.”

Something in his tone is different. You look up from your hands to see something in Sawyer's eyes that, for the first time, makes you a little scared. 

“That—that fucking asshole said that—that you? Enough? The most fucking perfect little doll on the fucking planet and he wanted more? That stupid son of a bitch. That stupid, motherfucking, dead son of a bitch thinks he can make you cry and just—just—“

He moves, turning towards the door, muttering, “I’m gonna go—“

You barely catch what he’s saying anymore and grab his bare arm, suddenly desperate for him not to go. To leave you alone. “No!” 

A pause and there’s something dark in his eyes as he looks at you, something that makes you want to let go and change the locks when he leaves. A calmness that was almost, almost — predatory. 

“S-Stay,” you stutter, words already leaving your mouth, “Please, Sawyer. H-he’s trash and I don’t fucking care about him anymore,“ His expression is softening fast but it’s too late, the tears are coming and you feel like you’re losing control. You say, “You’re not. Please, please, stay.”

“Doll,” he starts, but you can barely make out his expression of contrition through the fresh haze of tears. God, you’re such a fucking wuss. This is exactly why your ex thought he could walk all over you. 

Sawyer continues talking, “You’re the most important thing, I can handle him later, please, please, don’t cry—“

Way too late for that. You suck in a breath as he continues babbling nonsense about getting you a finger as proof or something. Now that the rage was gone, you feel so fucking awful. Your knees start to fail you but instead of falling, you’re awkwardly set down, bare knees cold against the kitchen floor. Your impromptu bedspread toga slips open and pools around you.

“Doll, doll, please, please stop crying. I-I’ll do anything, please—You want to see pictures of my ferrets? I have pictures of my ferrets! Bandit and Rascal, great ferrets, super cute, you’ll love them, doll, please don't—“

His words hit you and start to laugh. “Ferrets?” 

“Yea!” His eyes light up. “You like ferrets?”

“Who doesn’t?” you say, still sniffling but smiling now, “They’re adorable as shit.” 

Sawyer’s already fumbling with his phone. The screen is so cracked you half expect it not to turn on, but voila, a few seconds and there were ferrets. Blurry, sure, and a little hard to make out through the shattered glass, but still. Ferrets.

“Cute,” you say, squinting. “Do they have names?”

“Rascal! The one sleeping is Bandit. He only really wakes up at night to steal takeout from under the bed,” he replies happily, scooting closer to scroll through some more photos. “Rascal helps sometimes, but he’s more of a raw egg guy. Sometimes he can even catch them in his mouth. See?”

You hum, laying your head on Sawyer’s bare shoulder as you watch the grainy video of what looks to be a ferret with around a dozen broken egg shells surrounding him. “He looks talented.”

“Yea!” There’s an extra excitement in his voice as he looks at you, something melting in his eyes. “You’ll love them, doll.”

You blink and open your mouth to ask what he means, only for your eyes to fall on the bloody knuckles of his hand gripping the phone. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs, “Wanna see them do some more tricks?”

You’re already rising, goosebumps covering your arms as you head for the medical kit in the bathroom. “I’ll just get some bandaids.” And a shirt, you mentally add to yourself. Walking around tits out was freeing, but bound to leave you with a cold. 

Sawyer’s right behind you, still chatting away about his, admittedly adorable, ferrets. You grab the lightweight medical kit that came as a gift from your mom and grab the disinfectant. It takes a couple minutes to convince him to let you dab it on, promising more than once that it was hydrogen peroxide, not rubbing alcohol, and so wouldn’t sting, before he lets you clean the cuts. 

Eventually, you finish up and are left to stare at the raised bumps of a bite mark on his shoulder. 

He notices you staring and grins, “Looks good, doesn’t it?”

You look into his eyes for some sign of sarcasm. Some judgement on the fact you tried to fucking take a chunk out of him when you came, but there’s none. Only a bright understanding that you don’t get. 

For some reason that reminds you of your ex, and how apparently he had never understood. At least not enough to think his cheating wouldn’t affect you. Your throat tightens and you look away. “Sorry. I don’t usually do stuff like that, “ you say, a blanket disclaimer for the entire night, “I’m usually a big goody-goody, actually. I was just so, so, I don’t know—“

“Bored?” Sawyer says and it weirdly resonates. “I get it! Sometimes you just gotta snap, doll, get it out. It’s good for you!”

You chuckle. “Don’t think losing my job and all my friends is that good.”

He tugs you closer so you stand between his legs, still only eye level with his stupid tall self. “But you got me now.”

There’s a simple earnestness there that makes you want to cry. And, in the back of your head, a slight concern on what exactly you two were now. You say awkwardly, “I mean, for now. I’ll probably have to spend the next couple weeks looking for a new job, so it’ll probably be too busy—“

“Boring,” he says, smile going sharp, “You should do something more fun, like let me get you off again.”

One hand starts to squeeze your exposed ass, the other trailing up to rub one of the angry hickies littered over your breasts. If you were a reasonable woman, you would kick him out and start calling up old work references.

The woman you actually are has a better idea on how to spend your afternoon. You let yourself smile and brush a thumb over his lips, leaning down for a brief kiss. Then you drop to your knees and start pulling out his already half-hard cock. 

There’s a loud, “Fuck, doll—“ that you ignore, taking the chance instead to cradle his length. Shit, he was big. And somehow scarier up close. You eye one of the dark piercings. Also cool, you had to admit, thumbing the barbell on head of his already weeping erection.

“D-Doll, you gotta—"

You squeeze a little tighter as he speaks, forcing him to gasp. There’s a strange quality in your voice you don’t recognize as you say, “Relax, Sawyer." You lean closer to idly trail kisses up his exposed shaft between words. “I’m. Just. Having. Fun.”

He gives a stuttering moan when you look up, peering under your lashes shyly. “Is that alright?”

“Fuck—Fuck yes,” Sawyer says, eyes dark and fully dilated with want, “Play away, girly.“

Smiling at how damn eager he is, you start to mouth the head of his dick, sucking idly on the steel of the piercing and humming. Judging by the long groan and, “Fuck, fuckkkk—”

Your choice of recreation is well received.

You ignore his loud, now bordering on overly effusive, praise. Your hand is already pushing his knee away to create more room as you slowly bob your way down his impressive length. He’s so thick your mouth hurts, stretching to its limits. The bumps of the metal are odd against the silky steel texture of him and you start to squirm as you remember them inside you, rubbing together as he’d fucked in and out. Fuck, that had been good. Everything you thought you shouldn't want, but fuck, so, so good. 

You’re broken from your musings by a sudden grip on the back of your head, the only warning before he thrusts, hard. His head hits the back of your throat and you almost cough, but catch yourself, breathing hard instead through your nose. It’s almost enough to prepare you for the next one, but not the one after that as he starts properly fucking your mouth.

Part of you wants to be outraged, but the majority of you is thrilled. The drool starts to pool and drip from the corner of your mouth. You hollow out your cheeks and dig your nails into his thigh to keep from gagging too hard. He doesn’t seem to mind, judging by his renewed effort, the wet gargle of face fucking still not enough to drown out his voice. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Perfect mouth,” Sawyer croons, “ Could fuck it always, doll, shit. Take it so fucking well.”

The growing ache of your sore throat is getting unbearable but it’s good, so fucking real and good. You force yourself to focus, swallowing thickly around his thrusting member, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. The sound of you properly gagging on him starts to fill the air, a wet slap that’s getting faster. Your only warning is his hand yanking your face forward, burying your nose in his curls, before his cock pulses and he comes down your throat. 

Between the abuse and the honestly, torrential fucking amounts of cum this man was apparently capable of producing, you’re forced to break away with a gasp. You cough violently. Some cum drips from the corner of your mouth to your chin and his eyes follow the trail, something like fascination in the way he watches it drip down to your exposed breasts.

He reaches out to fondle one and you let him, leaning back on the cold tile. You breathe in and out with desperate pants for air as his cum slathered fingers pinch and rub your still sore nipples. 

“So fucking pretty, doll,” he says, the closest he’s come to a whisper since you met, “So…” The other hand trails down to the patch between your legs.

You flinch and say, “Wait.” 

He freezes, eyes wide. Smiling sheepishly, you croak out, “Still sore down there. Really sore.”

There’s a flash of some expression on his face, almost gleeful at your admission, before it melts away to the same bright smile you’re finding yourself getting used to. “Course, doll. Plenty of time.”

There’s something lurking in that statement that makes you uneasy, but you push it down. Sawyer has been nothing but helpful. Misguided and bad at anything resembling impulse control. But still helpful.

You smile back softly, covered in cum and hurting pretty much everywhere, but somehow still happier than you’ve been in a long time.


End file.
